


Absence Makes

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Jakes couldn't care less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trove

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this counts as a kind of a sequel to 'Ihrem Ende eilen sie zu.' but you definitely don't need to have read any of my previous fics to enjoy this one.
> 
> Many thanks to Beth and Rose, without whom there'd not be fic to post.

The front door is open so he lets himself in, and once he's reached the stairs he takes two steps at once to escape the prying eyes of the elderly landlady living on the ground floor. When he knocks on Morse's door, once, twice, there's no reply. He should have known. The windows are dark, there's no music playing from beyond the thin walls. Out drinking, Morse is, probably on his own. 

Jakes doesn't even know why he's come tonight. 

“Moved out about a week ago, that one,” an unpleasant voice calls up to him. Curiosity has made Morse's landlady follow Jakes halfway up the stairs, curlers in her greying hair and faded dressing gown and all. It's late. With Morse he almost never bothers with keeping respectable hours. In fact, he hasn't paid him a visit for months now. Not since the other man has been relegated to Witney, pushing paper out in the countryside. 

Jakes watches as the old woman lingers on the wooden steps. Maybe she's hoping for a juicy bit of gossip but Jakes's lips are sealed, his mouth set in a hard line as the fist he's made to knock reluctantly uncurls by his side. 

“Just as well,” she goes on, unbidden. “All that dreadful noise, worse than what's on the wireless today. Classical.” She scoffs. “Nothing much classy about it, if you ask me.”

He doesn't, and instead makes up some sour-faced excuse about having mixed the dates. He doesn't bother asking about where it is that Morse has moved to but there's an indeterminable feeling of dread somewhere deep in his chest, and it won't leave him alone even after he's joined his mates at the White Horse. 

 

“Morse still out in Witney then?” he asks Strange when, a few days later, they're both queuing for egg and ham sandwiches in the canteen. They've been growing closer during these past few weeks, the two of them. They'll never be friends or buy each other rounds at the pub but they work well enough together. They know what it's about. Funny that the both of them should be drawn to a man who doesn't. 

“Far as I know.” 

Strange shrugs his shoulders and frowns. He's not seen Morse in a while, either, Jakes is sure of it. He shakes his head, and they share a moment of like-minded frustration between them. It's of little comfort to know that he's not the only one Morse has been cutting out of his life, and soon the relief that washes over him is replaced by the familiar safety of scorn. How pathetic to be wasting his time thinking about someone who so obviously doesn't do him the same courtesy. 

 

“Morse still out in Witney?” 

For a moment there, and Jakes isn't entirely sure why, Thursday stops chewing to contemplate his half-eaten sandwich. They're over at the pub for lunch, the same one they've been frequenting for weeks now. Jakes cradles his neglected pint of lager between cold hands and wonders why he keeps sabotaging himself. 

“Not for much longer, he isn't,” Thursday says but Jakes is too busy fighting the rush of misdirected adrenaline that threatens to flood his senses. It's like someone's pulled the very ground from underneath his feet, and now he's suddenly lurching downward, towards the painful realisation that, no, maybe Morse won't be coming back at all.

He inhales sharply and spills some of his beer on the dark, polished wood of the table. 

“Christ!” he mutters. He needs to pull himself together.

“Something the matter with you, Sergeant?”

Jakes shakes his head, then pretends to be fussy over where some of the lager has seeped into one of his sleeves. His affected behaviour earns him a bewildered look but at least it spares him further questions.

He won't ask again, he tells himself. There's no reason to now, and he's almost relieved that this is how it ends. All his life he's excelled at drawing up the walls around himself so what's one more white lie in the grand scheme of things? Walls that have already been torn down can just as easily be rebuilt.

 

“... and with Detective Constable Morse returning to his regular duties by the end of the week ...” 

There it is again, that strange, overwhelming buzzing sensation that sends shivers down his spine. Jakes sits up, back as straight as a ruler, and looks around himself. Everyone else, he's relieved to see, is busy listening to one of Bright's little speeches. Ever since they've moved into the new offices there's bound to be one of them every few couple of days. They aren't exactly motivational but everyone's grown used to Bright's newly-discovered mother hen complex. 

Jakes himself has become rather good at filtering out what's important and what's not but now Bright's words have burnt themselves into his every thought. The prodigal son returns at last. Jakes smiles to himself, strangely giddy with excitement. He imagines Morse raising his eyebrows at his unexpected choice of words. Undoubtedly he'd come up with a clever retort, seeking to outdo him even when there's nothing left for him to prove. But there'd also be surprise written all too plainly on his expressive face, and those are the moments that Jakes remembers most vividly. It makes him realise with a start that all of this past week he's been holding his breath. 

Fair enough. Maybe now he can finally go back to not caring at all.

 

There's an empty desk, right opposite his own. Ever since they've changed offices it's been used as a convenient way to stack files, overflowing ashtrays and empty cups. Now it's been cleared, its clunky old typewriter and run-down Bakelite phone ready for action. His own typing work neglected, Jakes has been sneaking glances at it all evening. He wonders how it'll be, with Morse back from light duties, his worn-out Mac draped once more over the back of his chair. Jakes has grown so used to the sight of it that its very absence now serves as a constant reminder. How cruel of Morse to taunt him so, he thinks darkly, and the letter that would usually take him no more than half an hour to finish keeps him glued to his desk until DI Chard arrives for the graveyard shift. 

 

He's caught Jakes's eyes even before Bright welcomes him back into their midst so generously. Thursday and he enter the room quietly but Jakes has been on the lookout all morning. From where he's half-sitting, half-leaning on his desk he doesn't even need to shift his weight to watch Morse greet the sudden onslaught of attention towards him with an awkward turn of his head. Jakes does a double-take, he can't help myself. He hasn't seen Morse in months, none of them have, and now he's soaking up as much of him as he can dare under the circumstances. Has he always looked this worn-out? Jakes honestly can't tell; something seems off but he's afraid of picking apart the thought any further. It's a thankless endeavour. He'd much rather they'd return to what they were before.

“Quite some welcoming committee you got there,” he teases, after Bright and Thursday have gone, leaving Morse to get settled at his desk. “Parade and everything. That why you've been late? They been making speeches for you, too?”

Morse barely reacts, and instead busies himself by pulling the protective cover off his typewriter. And why would he be hurt by Morse's lack of attention, Jakes asks himself as he stares glumly at the dirty grey folds of his coat, hung neatly over the hatstand by the wall. Morse has always been a miserable sort; what else did he expect?

 

The absurdity of it makes him smile. Here they are, standing around all that's left of a dead man's life: glasses, hat, and keys; all carefully catalogued, handwritten tags detailing what little they have gathered so far. And Bright isn't getting tired of showering his young detective constable with unaccustomed praise. Maybe he's noticed, too; how Morse seems to have drawn within himself, and how much they all need him to come back, to be better. That's what he's good at, after all, whenever a case like this has stumped them all. Distracted and unsure he now seems, until Bright's concern makes him grimace, then smile reluctantly. He's never learned how to cope well with the attention. 

“Absence makes,” Jakes says, after some of the tension has broken away, but it doesn't occur to him until much later that it's not Bright he was talking about. He's not even sure what he meant by it, and giving it a name would only make it worse so he keeps his distance (it's not his fault lunch down at the pub has become a regular affair) and he keeps his cool (even when Morse doesn't), and when he finally decides to talk one of the plods into finding out Morse's new address he tells himself it's because he's his sergeant and he ought to know about these things. 

Which is why it's now late in the evening and he's making his way past overflowing dustbins, unsightly heaps of rubbish that have been left by the side of the road, and a little red moped he decides better not belong to Morse because if it does he'll never let him live it down.

“Are you one of Morse's colleagues?” a woman asks when he passes her in the hallway. Her voice is instantly captivating. It's lovely and sweet, just like the rest of her in her pretty nurse's uniform and made-up hair. Most definitely not the landlady, then. Jakes's reply is a winsome smile, the kind he knows makes most birds weak at the knees.

“Peter Jakes. I'm his sergeant.”

She ahhs, as if for her things have fallen into place, and he wonders about her, and about Morse. 

“I'm Monica,” she says as she slips into her cape coat and adjusts her hat. “His neighbour? I've been looking after him, you know, after ...” If her smile falters it's surely not because Jakes can feel his own mouth run dry. “Well, anyway, I'm off. My shift starts in, oh, less than half an hour. Must run.” Another smile, while her eyes soften as she passes what must be Morse's flat. “It was nice meeting you, Sergeant Jakes.”

Jakes doesn't know about that but after the echo of her footsteps has died away and he's done contemplating the solid, wooden door that currently separates him from the man who doesn't deserve to occupy most of his thoughts these days he knocks anyway. Morse opens just as down by the street the pitiful rattle of a moped trails off into the early summer night. He's visibly distracted by the sound, if only for a moment, then his bloodshot eyes flicker towards Jakes.

“What are you doing here?”

It's not the kind of welcome he's had in mind. For a moment he's sure Morse is going to refuse him, and he feels the soft glow of anger and something that's entirely too much like shame rise to his cheeks; then Morse steps back and the open door beckons him inside. 

His bedsit isn't at all what Jakes has imagined it would be. It's cluttered and not yet much lived in but it's surprisingly cosy; a real home for a change. Two cups, one empty, one half-finished, have been left on a tray by the desk. They look decidedly not like Morse. The bottle of scotch on the coffee table, however, does. 

But Jakes is quick at drawing conclusions. It's his job, after all. It's saved his hide, and his dignity, more than once.

“Already met the missus,” he half-jokes, then casts a disapproving eye over the stack of records occupying the chair closest to Morse's portable turntable. Classical, every last one of them. And here's something he most definitely hasn't and won't ever miss about Morse. 

Morse, who currently looks about as amused as Jakes himself feels. 

“She is a nurse.” His words come slow, and are accompanied by a roll of his eyes.

“So I've seen,” Jakes drawls as he takes in more of the little flat. Kitchen sink, little calendar on the wall nearby (a name, Joycie, has been scribbled down next to 18 May; does Monica know that she's in for a bit of competition?), even a small refrigerator. Clearly, Morse is moving up in the world, and that includes the goodwill of pretty nurses.

“You've met her?”

He seems surprised, guilty even, and Jakes decides to cut just a bit deeper. Morse owes him, after all.

“She's a looker, that one. Better make your move soon, mate, before I decide to have a go myself.”

The words, and his leery smile, and the way he stakes his claim by letting his coat (a new one that cost him a sizeable chunk of last month's wages) fall over the chair holding the stack of Mozarts and Wagners have found an easy target. 

“Is that why you've come here?” 

There's more than just a trace of hurt in his voice. Jakes sobers up instantly, and the last remnants of the much-practised smile on his lips vanish in a blink. His face is hard when he turns around. 

“Is that why you left?”

But despite all physical evidence to the contrary – the bruises underneath his eyes have only just begun to fade – Morse refuses to back down. 

“As if I had a choice!” There's desperation in the turn of his head, annoyance in the slope of his shoulders, an unspoken challenge on the curve of his lips.

“Pulled a little disappearing act, though, didn't you?” Jakes's voice is softer than either of them expected. When Morse's eyes begin to shine with the hollow triumph of realisation Jakes has already averted his own gaze. He studies his shoes instead: brown, real leather, half a size too big on him but all the rage with the birds down at the Moonlight.

“What?”

Jakes shrugs but it's an empty gesture. There's not much left of the confidence that's both his best weapon and his best defence. 

“I've been around to your place, only it's ...”

He's still talking to his shoes, and he knows it's idiotic, doesn't change a thing about the fact that his thoughts are an open book and he's nowhere near as unreadable as he's comfortable with.

But Morse, as usual, lets things go, and perhaps that's why he's told him (well, as close to telling him as he can possibly come) in the first place.

“Oh, right, I moved.” Then silence, and after however long it takes Morse to walk across the room until his feet, clad only in socks, appear opposite his own shoes: “I thought you knew.”

He'd have expected the words to sting, instead they reflect some of the bitterness that has haunted Jakes's own thoughts for weeks now.

“Yeah, right,” he replies, for old times' sake, but the fight has gone out of him and what should have been dismissive and cold feels brittle on his tongue and shatters into pieces as soon it crosses his lips.

And damn Morse for trying to make sense of it all. 

“When you didn't … I mean, you never … I thought you'd maybe ...”

Jakes shakes his head, furiously enough to have a strand of his slicked back hair fall across his forehead. He's about to speak, and yes, maybe he should; that's what people do, after all, or so he's been told. However, the one truth he's ever been made to utter has poisoned past and future alike, and so the words die in his throat. In his relief, he combs back his hair, palms of his hands pressed flat against the sides of his head to keep it all together. What else is there to do?

“Didn't teach you how to type out in Witney, though,” he says after he trusts himself enough to speak. “Didn't teach you how to stay out of trouble, either.”

Perhaps Morse expects another callous remark but Jakes has already had his fun, and anyway, he's done a lot of walking into doors of his own. Enough to know that bones and minds are fragile things, and they often heal crookedly and wrong if left alone for too long. So when he touches Morse's face it is with a trembling hand, but if the other man notices he's gracious enough not to comment. He keeps very still, parts his lips slightly as the tips of Jakes's fingers ghost over the bridge of his broken nose and the bruises underneath his eyes, before he catches his wrist in his own hand and leans forward until lips brush lips and they melt against each other in a deceptively chaste kiss.

There's nothing chaste, nothing sacred about the way Jakes feels. He doesn't love this man, perhaps he doesn't even need him. He hasn't missed his kisses because there are plenty of kisses to be had elsewhere. He's surely never craved his touch, even if he greets the warmth of Morse's hands with the kind of mindless enthusiasm that leaves him restless and short of breath. 

Jakes's own fingers remember all too well how to undo the buttons of Morse's shirt. What he doesn't expect is the sight that greets him after he's shoved aside the cotton of the vest underneath. Morse's stomach is a landscape of bruises, some of them of an angry shade of purple where skin stretches over muscle and ribs, others of a more forgiving yellow and blue where the sharp angles of his slim frame give way and feel soft to his touch. Jakes is strangely fascinated by the terrible sight. Someone's clearly been having a go at Morse, and his hands curl into involuntary fists as he realises, not to cause him injury but to make him suffer a good deal of pain. As if he's read his mind, Morse shrugs his freckled shoulders.

“Could have been much worse, apparently.”

Jakes follows his gaze to where a small, uneven shape has been left on top of a filled-in Sunday crossword. The sight seems so out of place in Morse's flat that at first his mind refuses to make sense of it. Of course he's seen countless knuckledusters in his day – there's an ever-growing collection of them taking up a whole box in the evidence vault – yet this one makes his stomach turn. 

“Don't say that,” he mutters. Suddenly Morse's bruises have lost their fascination, and he seeks solace in his lips, drinks from the depth of his eyes, and runs his hands through Morse's ridiculous excuse for a haircut. 

“Every time I think I've got you figured out ...” Morse breathes softly against the crook of his neck. It's supposed to sound light-hearted, Jakes knows: Morse's equivalent of sweet nothings. There's no innuendo, no hidden meaning, not with him; yet Jakes's heart freezes, if only for a moment.

“You wouldn't even know where to start,” he says, from somewhere deep within his chest, where secrets untold have slumbered for so long that not even Jakes can fathom the true extent of their depth.

“No, I suppose not.” Morse's lips engrave the words into his skin, and his voice changes, the promise lying therein now an entirely different one. “Would you want me to?”

Jakes smiles, just a little, and shakes his head. 

And as they tumble into Morse's unmade bed, the memory of bruises old and new loses all meaning in the ever-shrinking shadows between them. Perhaps this is why he's come tonight. It's a reason as good as any other.


	2. Nocturne

In the dawn of an early July morning it's not the sound of blackbirds or the arrival of the milkman that lures Jakes out of a deceptively harmless dream and into sudden wakefulness. There's an arm draped over his naked chest. He can feel its weight and warmth, and the thin fuzz of fair hair ghosting over his cool skin every time he breathes in and out. The angled slopes of hips are pressed against his side, and a tangle of sheets and legs has entwined itself with his own body. 

He's far from comfortable and the bed is too small. Even the covers haven't survived the tryst of the previous evening. One of Jakes's feet rests on the crumpled duvet that has fallen halfway to the floor. How Morse manages to take possession of what little space they have so completely he'll never know. This isn't even about closeness. They touch but they never embrace. Morse's arm feels like an afterthought; his naked form against his own skin like an inconsiderate convenience. Morse is all outstretched limbs. He tosses and he turns, his fingers twitch, his sighs are breathless against Jakes's cheeks. 

That, and he snores. 

It doesn't take Jakes long to decide to shake off Morse's arm and twist away from his warmth. As he sits up, the space he has abandoned is immediately taken up. Still half asleep – a soundless moan nothing more than tremors in his chest – Morse curls around him.

“You leaving?” he asks, his voice drowsy with sleep, and in that moment Jakes doesn't know what to reply. He can barely make out his clothes in the monochrome shadows of Morse's flat. His suit is draped over a chair but his shirt, tie, shoes and boxers have mingled with what Morse has carelessly scattered across the floor late last night. It's impossible to say whose clothes belong to whom. Perhaps it's a sign that he should stay, at least until the the faint light from the windows has turned a lighter shade of grey. 

He thinks about going for his pack of cigarettes but they, too, are out of reach. All that's readily available to him is Morse's record player on the night stand and half a bottle of scotch, one of many strewn about the room. Jakes frowns, and one of his hands comes to rest on Morse's thighs. The other man has fallen asleep again, his breath regular against Jakes's lower back, the tips of his fingers digging softly into the swell of one of his buttocks.

“Come on, “ Jakes says, his own fingers drawing invisible circles onto Morse's skin. “Move over.”

Morse obliges, which leaves Jakes with a fraction of the pillow and far less room than he's accustomed to from his own, marginally more spacious single bed. Still, somehow they make do, Morse and he. Never for long and certainly not out of some misguided excuse for affection. They're not like that, they never were, and whenever Jakes decides to spend the night – part of the night, anyway – he finds that he never gets much rest. It's as if Morse's over-active mind is contagious, and it's then, in the small hours of the morning, that Jakes almost understands what it must feel like to be cursed with a keen intellect. 

How odd it seems to him now that he used to spend his days envying the man whose lips are pressed against his shoulder and whose right knee digs rather painfully into his side. To Morse, all the world is a crossword that he's constantly trying to solve, whether he wants to or not. It's exhausting and dangerous to be listening to one's own thoughts so attentively. Jakes wonders how Morse can stand it. One sleepless night is enough to unsettle what has taken years to bury deep within his own mind. He's lucky, he supposes, that he's been given a choice; that his mind is sharp but not overly so. Morse, it seems, has never been afforded the same luxury. He thinks and thinks and thinks, even in his sleep, and often it puts him at odds with the people around him. 

No, Jakes no longer envies Morse his brilliant mind, and he'd rather his own thoughts wouldn't mirror Morse's restlessness. He turns his head, and strands of Morse's tousled hair tickle his unshaven chin. He smells of warmth and soap and, very faintly, like shared moments of ecstasy. It surprises Jakes that he can make out traces of his own cologne on Morse's skin. It smells differently on him, not as deliberate but very inviting. He can feel something stir low in his stomach, and he twists in Morse's casual embrace, so that the other man has to move, as well. One of Jakes's hands snakes between them, ever lower, until Morse awakes with a gasp and a roll of his hips that has Jakes smiling with anticipation and lazy complacency.

“Not leaving, then,” Morse drawls and inches closer, until the constraints of the bed no longer seem like an obstacle. Jakes kicks off what's left of the tangled sheets, and soon the pillow joins their clothes on the dusty floor.

They only stop when they are spent, skin glistening in the early daylight falling through the folds of the window curtains. Morse's mind, Jakes has learnt by now, falls silent in the aftermath of their intimacy. His body, its shape so familiar against his own overheated skin, lies unmoving; his arm is a dead-weight against the rise and fall of his chest.

It's the sound of a moped and muted heels on wet pavement that finally prompt Jakes into action. He untangles himself from Morse's sleeping form and walks over to where the kitchen sink is bathed in layers of dulled sunlight. As he dresses, his hair still damp from when he's combed it back with dripping fingers, he steals glances at Morse's freckled back, and the way his hair sticks up defiantly at the back of his neck, and the way his pale thighs curve gently into a promise of more.

Jakes frowns. He needs to be careful. 

It's not about being found out. They're quite safe in the shadows of what often comes down to a general lack of imagination. People see what they want to see, and Jakes has made sure that he's in control of exactly who he is to others.

But Morse isn't 'others', that much he realises as he fumbles for his cigarettes. He relaxes visibly as he lights up, and for a moment he watches as the shapeless trails of smoke rise aimlessly into the empty space between them, and he fights the urge to sit down again at the edge of the bed and let his face sink into his hands. 

This is what Morse reduces him to, and this is exactly why he needs to keep his distance, lest he catch some of Morse's cleverness and won't be able to stop himself from unravelling his own well-kept secrets. 

It's probably for the best that he leaves without saying another word.

Once on the stairs the sound of a door swinging open startles him into hesitation. For a moment he pictures Morse standing in the hallway, blue eyes brimming with thoughts left unsaid and pale skin illuminated by a halo of sunlight breaking through the single window behind him. The thought excites him but when he turns around, a confident smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he recognises Morse's neighbour, in her nurse's uniform sans hat, with a brown paper bag clutched tightly in her hands.

“Oh,” she greets him, and she seems disappointed. “It's … Sergeant Jakes?” A polite smile accentuates the soft curve of her cheekbones but Jakes knows that she, much like him, was hoping to find someone else.

“Monica, is it?”

There's neither smugness nor suspicion in his voice as he retraces his steps back to where Monica is standing between her own open door and Morse's closed one. She nods, her smile growing more genuine.

“Graveyard shift,” he explains and nods towards where he hopes Morse is still sound asleep. 

“Me too! I was just rustling up a bite to eat and thought that maybe ...” she shakes her head, as if scolding herself for her childish naivety. “Well, never mind.”

Jakes catches her blush before she quickly looks away and hugs the paper bag closer to her chest. They are momentarily prompted into silence, uncomfortable enough to make the smile on Jakes's face feel out of place. 

He lifts his cigarette to his mouth like armour.

“I have to-”

“Of course. I didn't mean to hold you up.”

They both seem glad to retreat back into their own separate worlds, where the only thing that they have in common is Morse – a thought so disturbing to Jakes that he barely acknowledges the lone figure huddled in his doorway as, about a fortnight later, he makes his way home after an evening out in the pub.

The lacklustre temperatures of the day have cooled off considerably and the soft drizzle of rain is persistent as it soaks into his suit and combed back hair. He can hear cheering in the distance, and he smiles to himself – his own voice is still hoarse from shouting at one of the little black-and-white televisions that in the past few weeks have been the centre of attention in every pub in town – but only for a moment until he passes his unwelcome visitor and unlocks the front door with a practised push against its old wooden frame.

“What are you doing here?”

And when that doesn't earn him a reply: “Shouldn't you be out celebrating?”

Morse frowns. He probably misunderstood; who knows what's going on in that clever brain of his. Shoulders hunched up against the chill and rain, hands buried deep within the pockets of his macintosh he follows him into a dark hallway and up the steep and narrow stairs. Jakes has half a mind to tell him to sod off. This isn't how they do things, and he doesn't like the way Morse takes his presence here for granted.

“How come you know where I live anyway?” 

Morse shrugs.

“I asked the desk sergeant over what should have been a nod and a simple signature and instead derailed into a rather one-sided lecture on Bobby Charlston.”

It takes Jakes a moment to place the name, then he remembers that Morse isn't much versed in the ways of the beautiful game. He manages to conjure up half a smile.

“Playing Nancy Drew out in the countryside wasn't enough for you, yeah? Had to be good at the sweepstakes, too.”

That earns him another frown: one that feels entirely too personal, a sore spot that only adds to what he doesn't know about the other man. 

“I put my name in the raffle, that's all I did,” Morse says but Jakes is having none of his false modesty.

“So you're lucky, then.” A twist of the key in his hand unlocks the door to his bedsit. “Come in,” he says, because he feels like he has to if he wants to stay on top of things. Morse may have turned up unwanted but it's he who has invited him to stay. 

That doesn't change the fact that Morse looks entirely out of place between the overburdened hat stand by the door and the small coffee table littered with the usual detritus that's part of living as a bachelor: an overflowing ashtray, two empty packs of cigarettes, a small comb, yesterday's sports pages of the Oxford Mail. If Morse, in his habit as a detective and lover of distilled and cask-conditioned spirits, is looking for the obligatory bottle of scotch he'll be in for a disappointment. Jakes is nowhere near as steadfast a drinker, and he hides his booze on a shelf, behind a battered copy of Moriarty's, a few Ian Flemings and the Concise Oxford English Dictionary.

After Jakes has switched on the old-fashioned standard lamp by his settee it's the shelf that Morse gravitates to first. Besides the bottles of alcohol and his meagre collection of books, it also holds a stack of records, a portable little wireless and a fashionable record player with matching speakers in a lively shade of orange that doesn't mix well with the faded beige wallpaper. Morse's curiosity seems innocent enough but Jakes feels uneasy as he watches him go through the colourful covers of his 45s with a rather sour expression on his face. 

“Not one for the Stones, then?” he comments and hopes the sarcasm dripping from his voice masks his rising state of agitation. 

It's then that it occurs to him that Morse too seems rather distracted. His hands clasped tightly behind his back, he hasn't even doffed his rain-sodden coat, and his shoes leave dark prints on the thick carpet. 

“Drink?” Jakes offers and Morse whirls around before giving him another shrug and half a nod. That's a yes, then, but it doesn't get him any closer to why they're both here tonight, when Morse should be off gloating after having caught yet another illustrious killer, and he himself should be preparing for an entirely too sleepless night. 

Because World Cup win or not, a case that involves children has them rattled, and Jakes knows from bitter experience that the feeling of unease won't let off for days. You don't forget about places like Blythe Mount School easily.

“You did good, though,” he awkwardly praises Morse when they've both taken a seat on the settee and Morse's mac hangs dripping amidst Jakes's own collection of coats. Someone – perhaps his mum or Monica or Joan; Morse seems to have a vast number of women in his life to choose from – has recently fixed the stained lining but despite the careful stitching the coat looks like it's beyond saving now.

Morse looks up then, puzzled.

“Slew the dragon, saved the damsel.” Impatience draws each of his words together like pearls on a tightly-wound string. “That's the kind of thing you're going for, yeah? Like in your operas.”

He's not used to giving compliments, and Morse isn't one to be receiving them graciously.

“If you say so,” he mumbles into his glass. 

There's more to it, Jakes is sure of it.

“Look, I know it's not ...” 

He stops when Morse starts rubbing at his eyes.

“I can't get her face out of my head.”

It's the girl he means. Maud. The dead little girl. The one Jakes couldn't bring himself to look at. The one that made his heart beat faster and his suit cling to his back. The one whose pitiful existence invokes memories so terrible that only righteous anger helps to bury them again. 

Jakes sits up a little straighter, one empty hand lies flat and motionless on his knee, the other he holds close to his chest. A fine trail of smoke rises into the air in front of him, taut like something that's been drawn with a ruler. He's good at this, he knows he is, but it costs him, and he wishes Morse would stop baring his soul in front of him.

“You're going to have to.”

For Jakes it's as simple as that. If only Morse would understand.

“How do you do it? How do you stay so-”

Jakes shakes his head, the muscles in his jaw twitch and the smoke of his cigarette draws angry shapes into the air. 

“Don't. There's nothing to it,” he warns.

Morse barely reacts. He seems caught up in his own thoughts instead, but when he turns and looks at him, his blue eyes wide and haunted, it's with an intensity that has Jakes on the edge of his seat. 

“You didn't hesitate even once. Black could have been waiting in the basement, yet you were prepared to face him alone.”

“So were you.“

Jakes's reply comes as an accusation. After all, he isn't the hero of the hour. The honour falls to Morse. Why can't he just leave it at that? Why continue asking questions when the answers won't change a thing?

“I was lucky. I suppose,” Morse reluctantly admits, and Jakes offers him a trace of a smile.

“Sometimes that's good enough. Just don't let Brass know about it in your paperwork.”

Jakes's words take a moment to reach him. When they do, Morse rewards him with a smile of his own, half-hidden between a grimace and a downward flicker of his eyes. 

Once again, Jakes wonders why he's really here, and why he's crossed the line that they've established almost a year ago. They meet at Morse's flat, or – more often than not – not at all, but they've been getting closer these past few months, and Jakes also wonders if this is how it ends. He can't, and he won't, give Morse what Monica the nurse or Joan Thursday offer him so freely: warmth, friendship, mutual understanding, perhaps even love. All that Jakes is willing to part with is a grope in the dark and words that often sting rather than soothe.

At least he's being honest with himself. The same can't always be said for Morse.

But none of that is important right now. 

Jakes drops his cigarette into his half-finished glass of scotch, where it sizzles out with a quiet hiss. Wet ash mingles with amber liquid. It's not a pleasant smell, and he's sure Morse is about to wrinkle his nose in disdain, a perfect time as any to pull him close and into a possessive kiss.

Morse doesn't resist, even when his own glass – empty of course – tumbles to the carpeted floor and comes to roll against the coffee table's legs. Jakes isn't a slob. His bed is made, his dishes done regularly, and he's sweet-talked the landlady into hoovering the place once a week. Pushing Morse into the settee's faded green pillows is certainly more convenient than bumping into an array of the man's mismatched furniture. It should feel like home, clean and comfortable and relaxing. Instead Jakes feels like a stranger in his own flat and no amount of boldness on his part can erase the fear that he's been getting himself in too deep. 

Naturally, he doesn't let it show. 

And he enjoys this; enjoys the feel of Morse's soft lips on his own, enjoys the taste of his liquor-kissed mouth, his fingers in his strawberry-blond hair, the way Morse strains towards him as if he's challenging him to a battle of wills. And it's no longer even about winning. They're long past playing a game of who gets flustered first (they have enough of that at work to last them a life time), although Jakes deeply enjoys the look of unguarded surprise on Morse's face as he unbuttons his trousers and begins tugging at the obstructive garment and the white cotton underneath.

“Anything you may be wearing,” he whispers and he bends lower, “may be taken down and used in evidence.”

He expects a sneer, at the very least the dismissive roll of an eye. It's not a very good pick-up line, after all, and one that's been used by every self-respecting copper at least once – sometimes even unironically. Instead Morse just stares, reddened lips slightly opened, his freckles bathed in a healthy glow.

Jakes supposes it's the perfect moment to dip his head low and take him into his mouth. 

This results in a rather enticing gasp and a roll of Morse's hips that leaves Jakes struggling for breath. One hand flat on his stomach, the other on the inside of one of his thighs, he finds a rhythm that is hard to maintain. Morse and he have never followed the same tune but it keeps things exciting and unpredictable, and when Jakes lets his chin rest against a warm thigh he can feel the other man shudder under his touch. Nothing he says could ever have the same effect. He revels in that knowledge, and kisses Morse once, there, on the tip of his arousal. 

There are no more words after that; and when release comes, drawn near by eager mouths and hands, Jakes bites the inside of his cheek and wishes that his thoughts would stop haunting him. But he isn't Morse and sleep eludes him even after the other man's weight against him has settled into fitful dreams of sorrow and regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only borrowed Jakes's highly questionable pick-up line. 
> 
> The full quote is: "I ought to make it quite clear to you, ma’am, that any knickers you may be wearing may well be taken down and used in evidence," and is used by Morse in 'The Jewel That Was Ours.' Surprisingly enough, it seems to do the trick.


	3. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not supposed to be this way. It's nothing more than a good time grown stale. Funny that Morse should be the one to treat is as such, while Jakes has fallen into the bad habit of caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it took me three years to continue this fic. Better late than never, I guess...
> 
> Many thanks to Chloe and Rose for their encouragement and help.

It's November and he hasn't been to Morse's bedsit once since autumn has lost most of its appeal. The place hasn't changed much. Rain-drenched leaves, brown and muddy and just as skeletal-looking as the trees from which they've fallen, cling to the wet pavement in unsightly blobs. Twilight and a soft drizzle hide much of the usual litter that accumulates against fences, walls and kerbs. Tonight even the reassuring heaviness of his footfall sounds muffled and hollow.

When he rings the doorbell he is denied an answer. Morse’s windows are dark. Probably out, he must be, perhaps to one of his eccentric classical get-togethers: choir practice, wailing operas, that sort of thing. Work is slow and he’s not down at the pub so what else would Morse be up to, Jakes tells himself as he grinds his half-finished cigarette into the pavement and pops the collar of his coat against the chill of the night.

The following day, they’re working car thefts, and Morse doesn’t mention a thing. He sits by himself, faint smile on his lips as he leans over his typewriter. Jakes can’t say what’s more infuriating: the painfully slow typing or his unreasonably cheery mood. Some opera that must have been, but Morse never says. Not a word until Thursday calls it a day and Morse slips into his new coat ‒ a proper one for once; hard to imagine that he picked it out for himself.

“You leaving?”, Jakes asks from where he sits hunched behind his desk. He keeps his eyes on his paperwork and his voice gruff. It’s a bad idea to give Morse, anyone, the wrong idea.

“Well, it’s past seven”, Morse explains, oblivious to Jakes’s curiosity as he checks his pockets for the Jag’s car keys, then glances at his cheap wristwatch for what feels like the hundredth time today. Wherever it is he wants to be it’s not here. 

“See you at the pub, then?”

And Jakes can’t help himself. Eyes hooded by the fluorescent lights above he takes his chances because he has to know, wants to see for himself, the moment Morse realises that this is more than just inconsequential banter. It’s been far too long since Morse has looked at him with hunger in his heart.

But Morse never notices. He’s drawn elsewhere entirely. 

“Not tonight.”

His reply ‒ their whole fragmented conversation ‒ is nothing more than an afterthought. Of what Jakes can’t say. He frowns, but Morse is already halfway across the room. Jakes watches as his shadow flits across the empty incidence board. 

“Another one of your... concerts?“, he asks because he isn’t used to being ignored. For once it makes him agreeable instead of angry. The same can’t be said about Morse. Jakes has pictured his intrigue, his gratefulness at being asked about his strange hobby. People like that sort of thing, don’t they? But when Morse stops and turns towards him impatiently he’s very clearly frustrated with being held up. As if he’s got anywhere else to be, Jakes thinks darkly before he remembers that he’s trying to make it up to Morse.

Morse who has no idea what he's talking about and, as usual, has little love for being kept in the dark.

“What concert?”

Jakes can feel his face grow hot. He immediately goes for his pack of smokes, a bad habit that keeps his hands occupied and face unreadable.

“Don’t know, do I?”, he lashes out, the end of his cigarette dipping into the flame of his lighter as he speaks. 

And finally Morse is paying attention. Eyebrows raised high he’s searching Jakes’s face for an explanation, like he’s one of his precious crossword clues just waiting to be unravelled. But Jakes has had enough. He no longer craves Morse’s presence. Swirls of cigarette smoke surround him like heavy clouds. A steady hail of typewritten words rain down upon the half-finished report before him ‒ loud enough to muffle the sound of Morse’s footsteps. When Jakes looks up, cigarette burned down, Morse is long gone.

Days go by and he tries not searching for his face in the crowd of pub-goers. There's Strange, the jacket of his uniform exchanged for one of his own, with a pint in his hand and laughter in his belly. There's Chard, surrounded by a group of colleagues. Sometimes that includes Jakes; often it is he who laughs the loudest at his cruel jokes. What else is there to do?

One week of this and he's had enough. It's not like Morse is avoiding him. It's not that they don't talk. Work keeps them busy, and that seems to be enough for Morse, who treats him with civility, even when Jakes pulls rank. It's as if the centre of Morse's universe has shifted and Jakes is no longer a part of it. To be ignored so completely when what they had before was a tantalising secret shared only between the two of them… well, it's insulting. Peter Jakes isn't often on the receiving end of being broken up with and he won't be cast aside like yesterday’s news. What they've had might have been nothing more than a silly little fling – all rough hands and lips, no feelings involved – but it still deserves an explanation.

And so Jakes corners Morse on the way back to the station from a routine visit out to Woodstock one late afternoon, when the rain beats heavily against the Jag's windows and dusk has just begun to swallow what's left of yet another bleak autumn day.

“Pull over”, Jakes orders, and before Morse can do more than just look at him: “Don't ask, just do it.”

The Jag's motor stops its regular hum and goes silent as Morse parks the car on the side of the road. There's no other cars around, just the sound of rain that makes the silence a little more bearable.

“What?”, Morse asks then, and in the half-light between them Jakes searches his face for guilt or regret or traces of deceit. But Morse's is an open face. He's always been wearing his thoughts on his sleeve. There's nothing there but mild surprise and curiosity, mingled with an annoyance that, with him, comes with the territory. Because above all, Jakes has come to learn, Morse craves, no, not the state of knowing, but the act of gaining knowledge. To deny it to him must be akin to a heavy smoker's craving for cigarettes. 

It is then that it occurs to Jakes that Morse really has no idea what this is about, and it makes him furious that he's the one left wondering while Morse's conscience is clear. It's not supposed to be this way. It's nothing more than a good time grown stale. Funny that Morse should be the one to treat is as such, while Jakes has fallen into the bad habit of caring. 

But he has to know so he speaks the words even though he dreads them, even though they're laughably clichéd.

“Talk, Morse. We need to talk.”

Jakes doesn't look at him then. How could he with who he is, how he wants to be seen? Hands itching for a cigarette he's staring straight ahead to where the lengthening shadows have turned the early evening into indistinct, washed-out shapes. His ears are straining against the rhythm of the rain. He needs to hear clearly whatever it is that Morse has to say to him.

“What is there to talk about?”

Jakes isn't sure what's more infuriating, his dismissal or his ignorance.

“This. Us”, and it's difficult for him to put it into words – this thing they have that's not supposed to be a thing at all, that has him mesmerised so thoroughly, has him craving for more.

“What about us?”

Jakes can feel Morse's lingering gaze on the very edges of his vision but he's not quite ready to face him yet. Hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, his mouth a thin line of disapproval, he counts fat droplets of rain as they roll down the fogged up window: one, two, three, four...

“Been trying to get a hold of you for days, haven't I.” There's an unspoken accusation there, right between the lines, but if Morse picks up on it he doesn't let on.

“I'm here now...”, he says, and suddenly Jakes is very aware of his presence, here inside the car with him, so close he could reach across and let cold fingers run over soft skin and kissable lips. Forget about seeing eye to eye. It's just an arrangement, after all. So what if Morse's definition differs from his own. Since when have they been about routine? And this – this is an opportunity: a rainy afternoon with nowhere else to be. Leave the paperwork for another day; leave the romance to people who can afford to put a name to things.

And, Jakes thinks coyly to himself, they've yet to do it in the car.

A kiss is less than an arm-length away. All Jakes has to do is turn his head just a little, lean in and let his instincts take over. He almost sighs then, as Morse's lips part and he rediscovers what it feels like to taste him on his tongue. He breathes in and realises that Morse is using aftershave, all smoky and warm – sandalwood perhaps? – so unlike the crisp smell of soap and old books that usually clings to him. Funny that, Jakes thinks, he almost finds himself wishing for the familiarity of it. What else has changed, he wonders, but the thought is quickly buried under a wave of arousal as Morse shifts in his seat. Jakes's hands untangle themselves from the pockets of his coat. One of them bumps against the steering wheel – he's usually the one in driver's seat and the role reversal adds to his excitement – and then brushes one bony knee before it firmly, suggestively wanders up his thigh, below the fabric of his coat and crumpled jacket underneath. He seeks out the warmth there, cups it, lets his fingers explore as Morse gasps into his mouth, one hand splayed against Jakes's chest, the other curled around the back of his neck.

And it's as easy as that, Jakes thinks fondly, the frustrations of the past few days not forgotten but blissfully far away, about as far away as the world beyond the Jag's windows, all monochrome shadows and white noise. The rustle of fabric nearby seems so much closer here, the sound of Morse's breathing so much louder. Mingling sensations – soft lips, inquisitive tongue, a hint of teeth – assault his senses. Morse clings to him like a drowning man and he had better get on with it, Jakes supposes, they can't draw this out for very much longer. Not in here, anyway. Thursday's Jaguar is a tantalising place to be, like this, with Morse, but there's also a lingering feeling of urgency, forbiddance that he can only bear for so long until his sense of duty might get the better of him. He probes for Morse's belt and opens his trousers with practised routine. Circumstances don't allow for much in the way of sensuality but he'll make do. He's getting quite adept as this, one hand is all that's needed and Morse groans into his mouth, legs spread wide within the constraints of the driver’s seat, hips pushed forward, half-leaning against him, breath growing shallow as Jakes's damp fingers pick up a shaky rhythm. There's the tickle of coarse hair, firm skin, a rustle of fabric slowly melting into desire, the smallest of tremors as Jakes changes the pace once a few sticky drops of pre-come make the friction easier to bear.

Morse gasps.

“I can't.”

The syllables are hot against Jakes's mouth and his hand stills immediately.

“You what?”, he whispers harshly. It's as if his voice hasn't quite caught up with Morse’s sudden change of heart.

“I can't.” Louder now, and farer away. “Not now.”

Morse backs away against his seat and gently removes Jakes's hand. It hovers in the empty space between them, palm facing downwards and devoid of purpose, as if reaching for something that's no longer there.

“No one's going to find out”, of that Jakes is quite certain. “Not even—”

“Don't!” Morse warns, the word a sound of carefully-articulated loyalty punctuated by something that to Jakes sounds a lot like hero-worship. That Jakes can understand – Morse isn't the only one in need of a mentor – and he nods his head, withdraws his hand and wipes away any trace of Morse with the help of a folded handkerchief from his coat pocket.

Next to him Morse hastily stuffs his shirt back into his trousers. It takes some awkward manoeuvring and when he's done he sits hunched over the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and out into what little there’s left of the day.

“I met someone”, he says then, voice hollow and eyes cast down.

A humourless smile tugs at the corners of Jakes's mouth. He feels vindicated, proven right. Then anger threatens to seep through the cracks of his carefully maintained facade. He swallows it down. He refuses to let Morse see.

“Couldn't have mentioned that earlier?”, he asks, sharper than intended. And as he watches Morse, shadows melting away the youthful features – the sensuous mouth and deep-set eyes until all that's left of him is an indistinct silhouette – the image he has of him rearranges itself. He used to think so little of him when they first met, and then he thought of him entirely too much. Now, he supposes, his view of him has grown clearer. It's a mind-sobering realisation, one that doesn't lift his mood in the slightest. To see Morse make mistakes, to fumble and fall like the rest of them, isn't as satisfying as he first thought it'd be. And it's exhausting, trying not to let it get to him.

“I didn't know how – things between us being what they are”, Morse goes on, then falters: “I didn't know you'd...”

He shakes his head; he’s all out of words.

And something in Jakes shuts down, is tightly locked away behind a sneer and calculating eyes. These buried thoughts are so different from the man Jakes desperately wants to be that contemplating them openly seems ridiculous. Being who he is, how could he afford to love anyone?

“Leading us on, yeah? Didn't take you for the sort, Morse.”

He knows the words must sting. Morse, prompted into action, finally turns toward him.

“It's not like that!”, he pleads.

Jakes shrugs.

“Never was”, he hears himself say.

“I can't… we can't keep doing this.”

And he's glad that he can't make out Morse's face in the darkness around them. Not that the tell-tale shimmer in his eyes would have swayed him. He's made his decision, just as Morse has made his. Only, he supposes, he's being far more honest about it.

“Alright”, Jakes says and rolls down the passenger window, stray drops of windswept rain dripping on the back of his hand. He relishes in the cold November air before he lights himself a cigarette.

“Just like that?”, Morse asks.

“Just like that.”

They sit in silence for a while as the acrid smoke burns away the last remnants of sandalwood and desire.


End file.
